


Found Family Ficlets

by RebrandedBard



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Ciri plays the lute and sings, Communication, Family Fluff, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Geralt learns to be a dad, Hair Braiding, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, I know I said let Ciri be happy but also let her express her troubles, Let Ciri be happy, M/M, Miscommunication, Oops, Pining, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:27:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebrandedBard/pseuds/RebrandedBard
Summary: A collection of Found Family Ficlets, mostly starring Geralt, Ciri, and Jaskier. Follow along in episodic fashion as they learn to communicate with one another and share their lives through little gestures, a healthy dose of teasing, and a heaping handful of mischief. Mostly dealt by Ciri's hand as she strives to get her two companions closer together.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 43
Kudos: 321





	1. Two Ribbons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is an affectionate companion, styling Ciri's hair and treating her to little presents, but Jaskier's doting has Ciri worried that Geralt thinks she's a spoiled princess. But is that really what has Geralt so upset?

“I think orange is a lovely color for the summer,” Jaskier said, rubbing his thumb over a piece of wide cotton ribbon. “Or classic red. A vibrant color would suit you.”

“I’d like a green one,” Ciri replied.

They’d been browsing the shop for a while, waiting while the tailor set to work fixing another new tear in one of Geralt’s shirts. It was early summer: a time when people were generous with their coin during an evening at the pub after a day’s work, and Jaskier’s busking had lined their purses well enough to justify a modest splurge. As such, he offered to treat Ciri to one thing in the shop that caught her fancy. She decided she’d like a new ribbon to tie up her hair.

“How about this one?” She held up the end of pretty dark green ribbon.

“Lace trim. Very lovely,” he said. He smiled and fetched the assistant to measure and cut a length for them. He paid and the woman wrapped it in a piece of patterned blue paper. A wink and he knelt, presenting it to Ciri with a flair. “Princess.”

“Thank you! But you didn’t need to wrap it,” she insisted.

“But the wrapping is the best part! Look how pretty it is. And a present isn’t as exciting if it doesn’t come wrapped. Half the fun is in unwrapping it.”

She chuckled. “But I already know what it is.”

“Not the point!” He took her hand and guided her to the display window. There was a stool left in the corner that the tailor would stand younger customers upon to have their measurements taken. But standing wasn’t what Jaskier had in mind.

“Take a seat. I’ll do your hair for you.”

Ciri dropped on the chair directly and opened her little paper parcel with enthusiasm. “How much longer until Geralt’s shirt is fixed?” she asked.

“Long enough for your hair to be properly styled. If we’re lucky, Geralt will be done by then and we can all eat together.” Jaskier let her hair down and passed the old ribbon over her shoulder. “Hold that a moment, please. Would you like it braided or bunned?”

“Both!”

“Both it is. But don’t expect that to be the answer when I ask whether you’ll have the roast or the stew at lunch.”

She chuckled again and waited while Jaskier set to work. He’d taken over the task of doing her hair since she’d started travelling with Geralt. Geralt himself was a bit rubbish at styling; he could only do a simple braid. Jaskier often instructed him aloud, trying to demonstrate the easier styles he knew so he might not feel left out. Which he insisted he didn’t, but every now and then he watched them a tad enviously. She could style her own hair, but it would always come out somewhat crooked. Not that it was her fault; she couldn’t see the back of her own head, after all.

“I wish Geralt knew how to do hair better,” Ciri said, sighing. He’d done her hair that morning. The braid was straight and neat, but plain. Jaskier had gotten up before them to fetch breakfast, leaving her at Geralt’s mercy to be styled.

“With a little effort, I’m sure he could learn,” Jaskier replied.

Ciri could hear the eye-roll in his voice.

“You should grow _your_ hair out, then I could return the favor.”

Now it was Jaskier’s turn to laugh. “I tried once, but Geralt kept making comments, telling me it was getting messy and unruly—not that I would _ever_ let so much as a single hair fall out of place. ‘Your hair needs a combing,’” he mimicked, dropping his voice low, making it rumble. “’It’s greasy; you need a wash.’ And my personal favorite, ‘Your braid is crooked,’ as if I would have anything but a perfect braid. He brought it up so often, I got fed up and had it cut. That finally shut him up.”

“Grow it. If he teases you, I’ll pinch him,” Ciri offered, pinching the air.

Jaskier patted her head in thanks. “I would never put you in a position where you had to pinch a witcher. If I decide to grow it out again, I’ll do my own pinching. In the meantime, you could always braid Geralt’s hair. His is long.”

Ciri had considered asking once, but she’d chickened out. Jaskier had just finished combing out her hair for her at the time and Geralt had returned from collecting his pay for a job. He was always in a good mood after cleaning up and getting his coin: it was the perfect moment to ask. But when he’d returned to their room and seen Jaskier playing with her hair, a familiar expression soured his features the slightest.

“He probably thinks it’s frivolous,” she said, twirling the old blue ribbon between her fingers. She frowned, remembering the look he’d given them. “He never styles his hair, but he never cuts it. Probably doesn’t think about his hair at all to bother doing either. What worries me is that he always has this look whenever you do my hair. It’s the same face he made when you bought me that bracelet at the spring festival, or when you gave me that pearled comb on my birthday. It wasn’t _much_ pearl—just a little. It wasn’t even a whole gold coin.” She looked down, nudging the floor with her foot. “Maybe he thinks I’m too dainty. Or spoiled.”

She tried very hard not to be. She’d taken it upon herself to help set up camp and collect firewood when they were on the road. She fed Roach and brushed out her hair, polished her tack. Any task she could do, she did. Geralt’s boots had never been cleaner. Nor had Jaskier’s. And she did her best not to complain—thankfully Jaskier did most of it for her—and she never fussed when the food they ate was under-seasoned or gamey. She learned to patch her own dress. Nobody could say she wasn’t a hard worker, but still he had that look every time Jaskier gave her the smallest thing.

Jaskier tilted her head back up and continued his braiding. “Don’t you think that for a moment. If he hasn’t reproached _me_ yet for my frivolity, he certainly should have no complaint about you. I’m far more of a spendthrift than you’d ever amount to.”

“But you waste your spare coin on _me_ ,” she replied, turning to protest.

“Try to sit still, dear.” He readjusted her head forward. “It may be true that I indulge in purchasing for you the occasional gift, but I spend _far_ more on myself. You’ve seen the clothes I wear. It takes constant upkeep to look this good. Besides, if I weren’t around, Geralt would settle just fine for sleeping out in the woods, bathing in cold rivers without all the fancy oils and salts. Nights in warm, clean inns with delicious food, freshly cooked by another’s hands? Laundered clothes? Comfy beds? That’s all my doing. And if I want to spend _my_ coin to give you a trifling something now and then, he can take it up with me.”

“But you’re always making me over, too. Making me look like a _princess_.”

“You _are_ a princess,” Jaskier said.

“Not out here I’m not. And I can’t afford to be. I just worry that no matter how I act, no matter how much work I try to do, as long as I look royal and dainty, that’s how he’ll see me.”

Jaskier stopped his ministrations and circled her stool. He knelt before her, his hands on her shoulders. He looked her straight in the eye, expression serious. “Geralt is _proud_ of you, Ciri. I would know; I’ve spent years learning how to decipher his expressions. He dotes on you in his own way.” He tapped a finger against her nose and grinned cheekily. “ _You_ , my fairest lady, get to ride _Roach_. And he lets you touch his swords. Believe me, that’s the highest expression of love where he’s concerned.”

Ciri smiled. “Am I over-thinking things?” she asked.

“Yes. But it makes me happy, knowing you like him enough to care what he thinks. With enough time, those worries will go away. Believe me, I felt the same way when I first started travelling with Geralt.” He patted her shoulder and stood, returning to his task.

“So … you care what Geralt thinks of you,” Ciri said, happily distracted by a new turn in the conversation.

“Of course. I hold his opinion in the highest regard, despite how often I ignore it.”

“Enough to cut your hair because he didn’t like it.”

Jaskier held a hand forward. “Ribbon, please.”

“Is there any particular reason you make such a fuss about your appearance? Even when we’re camping? It’s not like there’s anybody to impress out in the woods.”

“I’m vain,” he replied. “The _ribbon_ , Ciri.”

She pursed her lips, trying to hide a smile as she passed back the new ribbon. “You know, he looks at you a lot. When your back is turned, he has a tendency to stare. And he’s always watching when you perform.”

“Of course he does. I get into trouble whenever he looks away. It’s easier to have me where he can see me, as I’m sure he’s complained to you on multiple occasions when I’ve been out of earshot, so I’ve reliably been informed.”

“No. He never says a thing.”

“Well, that’s just like him, the wordless wonder.”

In another minute, her hair was finished. Jaskier helped her up from her stool and guided her to the dressing mirrors. Taking up a hand-mirror, he reflected the back of her hair, showing off his work. He’d done her hair up in a low bun, framed by a braided crown, woven through with the green ribbon. The ribbon was tied in a bow below the bun and the end of it hung in the air, fluttering when she moved.

Ciri beamed as she hugged Jaskier. “I love it!” she exclaimed. She turned to admire it in the mirror, titling her head this way and that for a better view. She liked to feel the ribbons as she flicked them with the turn of her head. What fun it would be to flick them in Geralt’s face. She was sure she’d get the chance in the course of the day; it’d probably come when they had lunch, in the form of some smart remark or other, likely at Jaskier’s expense.

The opportunity _had_ come, and much sooner than expected. Geralt had met them in the street, on the way back from collecting his pay. He’d spotted them just as they were leaving the tailor’s shop and caught up in a few strides, just behind Ciri.

“Is it done?” he asked.

“Geralt!” Ciri whirled around to greet him, accidentally whipping him with her ribbons. She hadn’t been prepared for it, but it was still immensely satisfying to watch his squint and flinch away. And this way, she couldn’t get in trouble for doing it on purpose. _Very_ satisfying indeed.

“Not quite,” Jaskier replied. “We got hungry while we were waiting and decided to get a bite of something to tide us over. We were just on our way to split a cream bun. Care to join us?”

Geralt grunted. “I think I’ll see how things are going,” he said.

“Suit yourself. More for us, right, Ciri?”

She nodded up at him. She was already planning on getting a cherry hand-pie. It was twice the treat because she knew she’d be able to get a bite or two of Jaskier’s bun.

“Don’t spoil her appetite,” Geralt warned. “We’ll go for lunch once I’m out.”

“One bun won’t make a difference. And just look at these poor twiggy arms, Geralt!” Jaskier raised Ciri’s arms out, draping dramatically over her shoulder. “She’s wasting away for want of pastries. If we don’t hurry and feed her some right away, it’ll be too late!”

Ciri played along, tilting her head against Jaskier’s and pouting her best, making her eyes as forlorn as possible. Her lip trembled as good as any actress pretending to fade away. She sniffled pathetically.

Jaskier grinned, feeding off her play. He cradled her head against his chest and threw a hand over his eyes. “Look upon this sweet face, Geralt, for it is the last you shall ever see of it! Alas! If only we’d made it to the bakery in time, we might have been spared her loss! At this rate, only _two_ cream buns would save her, but it has been forbidden. Fare thee well, dear Ciri! My heart breaks, knowing how much you shall be missed.” He gave a long fake sob and held her close. As a final ham, he smacked a farewell kiss on her forehead.

Geralt narrowed his eyes at them. There was that expression again. He lowered his head with a sigh, then he held one finger in the air. “One bun,” he conceded.

Jaskier hugged Ciri tight and wiggled in celebration. “That means we can get away with two each!” he said. “Come on Ciri; let’s get a honey tart, too!”

Ciri looked up at him, eyes shining with devious excitement. The only thing more fun than sneaking snacks in secret was brazenly getting them against Geralt’s strict advice. “If it’s two, I want an apple turnover for after lunch.”

“I _just_ said—” Geralt began, but Jaskier cut him off with a hand to his face. He quickly dug into his purse and thrust a few coins into Ciri’s hand. “Run, Ciri, run! Hurry before he can stop us! And remember my cream bun!”

Ciri cackled with delight and skipped to the side, watching a moment while Jaskier playfully struggled against Geralt, then she took off running.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, exasperated.

Jaskier merely grinned, satisfied. He stood straight once more and brushed off Geralt’s armour, patting it with satisfaction. Then his expression became more reserved as he watched Ciri disappear up the road. He leaned against the window, crossing his arms as her figure retreated inside the bakery. Now that they were alone, he gazed sternly at Geralt, surprising him.

“What?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded toward the bakery. “She needs a little fun when she can get it, Geralt. More than a little. I’ve been paying attention, and she’s been trying to make up for some unfounded guilt.”

Geralt frowned. “What does she feel guilty about?”

“The simplest things. And you’re to blame for it.”

“Me?” Geralt had the decency to be affronted.

“Yes, you. You and your constant scowling,” Jaskier confirmed. He raised an arm to flick Geralt’s forehead. “Every time I try to get her to enjoy herself a little, to make her feel welcome, you get that disapproving look. If you think I’m spoiling her, come right out and tell me, but don’t make her feel bad for it. It’s none of her doing and you know it.”

“I don’t think you’re spoiling her,” Geralt denied.

“Then explain why you always look so upset when I’m giving her little gifts. I spent my own money and I’m frugal enough. You can’t have anything to complain about.”

“I don’t.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment more. Then, he closed his eyes and exhaled, leaning his head back against the window. With Ciri not in witness, he looked tired.

“I … You’ve done a lot to make Ciri at home,” Geralt said.

“I wish I could do more. It’s hard for her, the way her life has suddenly changed. I want to make things easier however I can.”

“You do.”

Jaskier opened one eye. “You could help. She’s so desperate for your approval. Whenever I put a little more effort into her appearance, she worries you’ll look at her and see a pampered princess. Her words, so you know.”

“Ciri’s capable and hard-working. I know that.”

“Then why not swallow your pride and learn how to do a proper braid? It’s one little thing you can do to show her you care, and it’d help prove you don’t think it’s an unnecessary waste of time. She deserves to feel nice and not feel bad about it. At the very least you could stop glowering at her when I’m combing her hair out and do it yourself instead of standing there enviously.”

“It’s not _her_ that—” but Geralt stopped himself.

Jaskier glanced over. “What?”

Geralt turned aside. “Never mind.”

Jaskier reached over and grabbed the door lever as Geralt tried to bail. “No, what were you going to say?”

Geralt stood trapped. He balled his fists at his sides, chewing the inside of the lip. For a moment, it looked like he would turn around and walk away from the conversation. But he stayed, silently debating.

“It … it looks nice,” he mumbled.

Jaskier leaned closer. “Come again?”

“It looks nice,” Geralt said, snapping his head towards him. “She always looks nice—all the braids and buns and ribbons. And you two spend an hour giggling together, you with your hands in her hair, chatting. You’re so affectionate. And then you give her flowers from the side of the road, or a trinket that reminds you of her. You’re always hanging off one another, holding hands, _kissing_ her forehead, and—!” Geralt swallowed, turned his head away again. “And … it looks nice.”

Jaskier observed a slight pink flush creeping into Geralt’s cheeks. “Are you jealous?” he asked, astounded. “Are you jealous that I get along so well with Ciri?”

“Well,” Geralt grumbled, “that’s a _part_ of it.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment longer. Then he broke out in a smile. “Geralt?” he asked.

Geralt was staring at a fixed point in the window.

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeated gently.

The witcher slowly looked at him.

“May I have the pleasure of braiding your hair?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt picked at his armour. “If you must,” he muttered.

When Ciri returned to the tailor’s shop, she had a bag full of treats and a healthy sprinkling of crumbs on her chin. And to her surprise and delight, she found Geralt sitting on the tailor’s stool, Jaskier’s clever hands set to work plaiting his hair with complicated braids. Jaskier had a new dark blue satin ribbon held between his lips, waiting to be tied on at the end. Geralt looked thoroughly embarrassed, but there was the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I like your hair, Geralt,” Ciri said, grinning.

Geralt looked at her. Finally, after weeks of worrying, he smiled back whole-heartedly. “I like your ribbon,” he replied.

Ciri got away with eating two tarts and a shortbread biscuit that day. Geralt was too busy holding Jaskier’s hand to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a lot of feelings about Ciri being involved in Geralt's life and I want to explore small story ideas centered around that, with Jaskier of course, and Yennefer as well. Just little things to keep me refreshed between updates.


	2. By the Rivers of Redania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before Jaskier comes along, things are tense between Geralt and Ciri. When Jaskier rejoins them, the contrast is stark between Jaskier's ready affection and Geralt's emotional distance. Ciri feels unwanted by this man meant to be her destiny. He won't even hold her hand.

Geralt wasn’t physically affectionate. It was a fact of life. Not that Ciri could really complain about it. When they’d first met, they’d shared that first hug, and that seemed to be it. One moment of brief comfort at the end of a long, harrowing journey, and Geralt could barely hold her hand to help her onto Roach’s back in the days that followed after. It was the way things were, and Ciri was fine with that at first; she was still learning how to navigate him then. It was enough to have him with her, taking care of her.

But then Jaskier joined them.

It helped that Jaskier was around. She could use him to gauge Geralt’s tolerance for many small disruptions, or his limit for chatter. Things had always been quiet in the days before Jaskier had come along, back when it was just the two of them. She hadn’t known how to act when they were alone. They’d kept mostly to themselves. The days fluctuated between tense and uncomfortable as the two of them tip toed around each other.

Jaskier was easier. He was a kindhearted rascal, always playful and full of life, and he would happily invite Ciri into all of his mischief. He made her feel free to act and speak whatever way she liked, as much as she liked. He would hold her hand when they explored together in the marketplace. At night in the pub he danced with her and she was always invited to join him in singing his songs. When she was tired on the road, he put her on his shoulders or carried her on his back while she hugged his neck. Geralt let her ride Roach now and then, but being carried by Jaskier was more fun. He told jokes and riddles to entertain her.

Sitting with Geralt was like being back in Cintran court. She was on her best behaviour, sitting quietly, worried about speaking out of turn. Before Jaskier had joined them, she’d asked Geralt lots of questions about himself and his adventures and he’d told her off for her chatter a tad gruffly. She slowly stopped pestering him after that, even when the air cleared.

When they encountered Jaskier on the road, he’d been giving a performance at an inn. She’d been with Geralt a few weeks by then and she’d decided he was something of a silent hermit. When Jaskier saw them, he’d stopped in the middle of his song and stared. At first, she thought he’d been struck silent from seeing her. Doubtless he’d heard about the fall of Cintra—he probably thought she was dead. He’d been to visit her many summers as she was growing up, and he came to perform for large events. Every visit, he made time for her to play and tell her a hundred stories. They’d been friends.

But as she raised her hand to wave, she was equally shocked by Geralt hurrying past her, striding right up to Jaskier and raising his arms to embrace him. And Jaskier shocked her further—and the entire audience by extension—when he smacked Geralt upside the head with a powerful open palm. And just like that, he buried himself in Geralt’s stunned arms, sobbing. Nobody explained what it had been about, but she could guess who was at fault. The exchange had taught her two things, however. Firstly, that Geralt and Jaskier had been friends. And given how brazenly Jaskier had smacked him, and how loud the sound of the smack had been, that they’d been close. So perhaps Geralt was not as much of a hermit as she’d thought.

Ciri was delighted when Jaskier decided to join them. He was a reminder of home. He was also a blessed relief from the monotony of their days, providing much needed conversation and a touch of light in the wake of her tragedy. And seeing how he acted with Geralt made it easier to like Geralt more too. He’d thawed the thin ice between them.

Nowadays, it was less awkward between them, but she often wondered if she was doing something wrong. Because try as she might, Geralt would not touch her. He avoided all contact, as if she were diseased.

Jaskier taught her to play a couple verses of an old ballad on his lute. It had taken her most of the afternoon to put it all together. Geralt was off fishing for their dinner and Jaskier was getting their camp ready before night fell, and while Ciri insisted on helping, Jaskier assured her that the work was mostly done. So she went on practicing, determined to finish this small task at least so she might have something to show for the evening. And at last, she’d played it perfectly twice through! She leapt to her feet and called Jaskier to listen. He applauded her efforts and squeezed her tight.

“Fantastic! In another five years, I may have competition!” Jaskier praised.

In the midst of his shower of compliments, Geralt emerged from the woods with a line of fish gripped dangling in his hand.

“Geralt!” Ciri lit up like a campfire and jumped up onto a boulder. She raised the lute and posed as she’d seen Jaskier do many times, beaming with pride. “Listen to this; I’ve just learned how to play _Rivers of Redania_ through four verses!”

“She’s sensational, Geralt. A true songbird!”

Ciri shushed him excitedly, waving a hand his direction. Then, carefully as she could with the adrenaline rushing through her, she began to pluck at the lute, tapping her foot to keep time.

_“Red runs the bed of every river in Redania,_

_With waters crystal clear and here the purple-faced burmannia;_

_And as the waters rush into the green and tossing sea,_

_Likewise I’ll not tarry long, for they are home to me.”_

It was a colorful song in a very literal sense, and though a number of the flowers’ names were difficult to remember, they rolled easily off the tongue once one knew the rhyme. They were travelling through it on their way to Oxenfurt, spotting many such flowers on their route, and as such, Jaskier decided it was the perfect song to begin her lessons.

Ciri paused in her recitation and pointed at Geralt’s catch, emphasizing the next line:

“White _as the light of moon, so shine each fish’s scales_

_And shines the silver eagle of each trade-ship’s flag and sails,_

_But offer not the sight of these, nor pink and gold hermannia,_

_To tempt me from the banks of my red rivers of Redania.”_

Jaskier nudged Geralt as he clapped along. Geralt nodded, a faint smile on his lips. He set the fish down on another boulder and sat down beside Jaskier to listen to the rest of her song. Ciri stood proud and her cheeks flushed pink, tickled to know she had his attention at last. She felt just like Jaskier, busking atop a table at a pub, and she hoped at the end of her song she might also know that touch of validation she’d seen them share in the weeks of travel, for at the end of every performance, Geralt might clap Jaskier’s shoulder or help him step down from his stage by way of congratulation.

_“Blue is the view from every salty sailor’s perch,_

_And green the grass in every field as far as one may search,_

_And though my heart grows mellow for the yellow engelmannia,_

_My heart will cherish naught but my red rivers of Redania._

_Grey is the quay that greets the ports of Novigrad,_

_And ever orange sunsets leave the cliffside golden-clad,_

_But I’ll not be persuaded by dear Anne or Theophania,_

_To lay my head in any bed aw—"_

Her finger slipped.

Ciri tried to recover quickly, but the sour note shook her. She stalled on the final line, and the spell had been broken. The power left her voice as she corrected the mistake, and quietly, she sang the last words, holding the lute a fraction closer for comfort.

_“—away from red Redania.”_

Jaskier leapt to his feet as if he hadn’t noticed a single flaw. “Bravo, Ciri!” he cheered. He reached up and lifted her down, giving her a celebratory spin before gripping her in a breathless hug. “Brilliantly done! All that after one—I emphasize— _one_ evening’s practice, Geralt. She has a _gift_ for musical learning. You’ll be my star pupil, Ciri, and I intend to rub it in the nose of every professor in Oxenfurt when we arrive. Let every past student envy my new protégé as I sing your praises in those hallowed halls!”

Then Jaskier began bellowing out a joyful rendition of the Oxenfurt anthem, replacing the words with shamelessly inflated praise for Ciri and himself as he guided her back to their pile of travel bags to put the lute away. The light was fading soon and they’d make an early night of it, having travelled a long and tiring way.

Geralt fixed their supper and they sat close together around the fire. Jaskier had a hand casually draped over Geralt’s shoulder as he prattled on and on, reciting some story about one of his old colleagues from school. Ciri sat quietly on Geralt’s other side, drifting in and out of the story. Her mind was elsewhere, too distracted to pay any attention to even the most humorous account. Absently, she tapped her fingers on her knee, replaying the final verse on imaginary strings.

When Jaskier talked himself tired, and when the fire banked low, and when the scraps of their dinner had long been tossed and burned among the embers, it was time for bed. Jaskier let Ciri’s hair down and combed it out, then plaited it neatly so that it lay flat while she slept. He hugged her and gave her forehead a good-night kiss, then left her to finish the rest of her nightly routine while he prepared the bedrolls.

Geralt was still by the fire, kicking dirt over the embers to put it out. Ciri crept over to him. His head turned to one side, listening, knowing she was about to speak. He probably heard the nervous beat of her heart.

“Did … you like my song?” Ciri asked.

Geralt nodded. “You must’ve studied hard. Cintra attracts talented teachers.”

Ciri bit her lip, frowning at the dirt. “It wasn’t a Cintran teacher who gave me my lessons,” she replied. There had been many teachers who tried and failed to interest her, only inspiring her to loathe the craft with their impatient teaching styles. “Jaskier taught me.”

Geralt hummed, amused. “I don’t think one night of teaching allows him the right to claim the past years of others’ work.”

“But there weren’t others. It’s always been Jaskier, even home in Cintra.”

Geralt looked at her, his brow slightly furrowed in confusion. “You studied his ballads?” he asked. Jaskier’s work was certainly influential throughout the continent.

“No. Well, yes, in time, when he decided I’d acquired the range for them. Mostly he taught me to sing traditional ballads that my grandmother would approve of at court, and a few sillier things when nobody was around to check on us.”

Geralt blinked. “Jaskier came to you in Cintra?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Every summer, a month at least. Often two.”

“He never told me.”

They stood together, Ciri shuffling in place. Jaskier had taken off toward the river to wash their bowls and utensils. It was again quiet.

“You never came with him,” Ciri said suddenly. “Were you very busy, out slaying monsters and protecting the innocent?”

Geralt turned aside. He sat slowly back down in his place, looking at the ashy remains of the fire. “There was work enough,” he mumbled.

Ciri stood, her hands clenched in her cloak for lack of anything to hold. “I know I was born Surprise. I can understand why you might stay away. But I had hoped … I wished I might’ve seen you at least now and again. Sending Jaskier isn’t the same.”

“I didn’t send him,” Geralt said.

Ciri’s fists clenched harder. “I know,” she whispered. He hadn’t even known he’d been there. And for many years, she’d fooled herself into pretending. That maybe, just maybe, he’d been thinking of her, worrying, checking in. Everyone knew that Jaskier, bard of the continent, was the lone companion of the White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia. She’d hoped that at least one of Jaskier’s visits or letters carried hopes of good health from _him._

Geralt stood. “It’s another early start tomorrow,” he said. “Try to get some sleep.”

Ciri turned, watching him walk away. She turned her palms outward, arms wide, though hesitantly low at her side. “Goodnight, Geralt,” she said meekly.

“Goodnight.”

When Jaskier returned and offered Ciri a last goodnight hug, she clutched him a little longer than usual, her shoulders trembling as she held him with all her might. He was startled, then he stroked her hair comfortingly. He didn’t say anything, didn’t ask questions, but allowed Ciri to curl up in his bedroll with him that night. He pressed a handkerchief softly to her cheeks now and then, hugged her close, and let her have out her silent cry.

In the morning, Ciri clung to Jaskier’s hand, walking pressed up to his side for hours after they broke camp. She didn’t say a word to either one, didn’t even look up from the far away horizon. She didn’t see Jaskier’s questioning glances, nor Geralt’s avoidant gaze. Jaskier did not sing his lively tunes or offer cheery jokes and riddles to pass the empty hours. He’d known silent days where even the narrative in his head spoke no words. They were feeling days. And they’d not been happy.

As the day wore on, she started to stare at Geralt’s hand. He was walking to her left, guiding Roach. His right hand was free, swaying at his side. Her own right hand was tucked around Jaskier’s left. But she’d decided that wasn’t enough. Just as she began reaching for Geralt’s hand, he turned, pulling Roach in front of them to halt the procession.

“We’ll break here for an hour and a meal,” he announced. “The river bends away from the road further down, so fill your skins before w—"

Ciri ripped her hand out of Jaskier’s, shoving it away, and took off running.

“Ciri!” Jaskier called. But he didn’t need to ask what was wrong. He’d seen.

Ciri did not stop. She tore off into the field and disappeared in the tall grasses.

“Fuck,” Geralt cursed. He shoved the reins into Jaskier’s hand. “Wait here,” he ordered.

“Geralt, I don’t think you shou—”

“Wait here!” he barked.

Jaskier sighed, watching him take off into the grass. He reached out and pet Roach’s neck. Really, he was sure whatever Geralt said to her would only make the situation worse. He didn’t have a gift for talking, and he was far too gruff in delicate situations such as these. “At least he went after her without being told,” he said.

Roach snuffled beside him in apparent agreement.

Ciri sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, her knees curled up to her chest. Her face was hidden in her arms as she tried to shut out the world. She rocked in place, trying to quell her rising anger. Whatever magic she possessed had a tendency to rear its vengeful head when she lost control of herself. She needed a moment alone. She didn’t want them to see.

Geralt’s heavy boots alerted her to his approach and lighted the spark anew. She tried to shove it down. It would’ve been better if it had been Jaskier, she thought. It surprised her when Geralt stopped in front of her and did nothing. He didn’t try to grab her and carry her back, nor force her to her feet. He didn’t scold her for running off or crying. He stood there without a word.

Curiosity got the better of her. She looked up.

Geralt was sitting on the ground, legs crossed beneath him casually. His elbows on his thighs, he sat, chin rested on the back of his twined hands. He was waiting hunched over patiently, just watching, giving her time.

Ciri wiped her eyes clean, rubbing her nose in her cloak. “It’s not fair,” she said at last.

Geralt folded his hands in his lap and sat up straight. “What’s not fair?”

“That I can hold Jaskier’s hand but not yours.”

Geralt sighed, closed his eyes briefly. He gave the impression of steeling himself. He looked the same way when he prepared to enter an unfamiliar terrain to fight an especially strong monster. Or when Jaskier came rushing behind him with a preemptive, “It’s not my fault,” and trouble hot on his heels.

Ciri uncurled, let her feet drop to the ground. “I’m not _his_ child Surprise, Geralt,” she continued. “And I like you. I really do feel that you could be a father to me.” She mirrored him, folding her hands loosely in her lap. “You _could_ be, you know.”

“I’m … “ Geralt hesitated. “I’m not a father.”

That was it. Ciri jumped off the trunk and stood with her feet apart, a hand to one hip. She fixed him with a glower, forcing him to look her in the eye. Then she held out her hand. “Hold it,” she demanded. “I don’t want much, Geralt. But just this once, hold my hand.”

Geralt looked away. He sat still, unmoving.

Slowly, cautiously, Ciri leaned down beside him. She tucked her hand in his and waited. Then, he squeezed it gently. She felt a weight lift from her heart the moment she felt it.

“All you have to do is not let go,” she said. “Just hold my hand until we get to the road. That’s all.”

Geralt nodded.

Ciri smiled and pulled him to his feet. They started walking together, clumsily at first as they adjusted pace, then in comfortable sync. Ciri dared to swing their joined hands a little, feeling bold. And Geralt didn’t let go.

He wasn’t a father just yet. He didn’t know how to be—was even a little afraid of the idea. But Ciri felt the warmth of his hand in hers and the timid grip and knew that maybe, just maybe, he could be in time. And when they came back to the road, as she reached for Jaskier’s hand, he didn’t let go. The three of them walked together hand in hand, squeezing tightly, and Ciri felt for the first time that she really did belong to them.

[Rivers of Redania](https://vimeo.com/414641649) from [Rebranded Bard](https://vimeo.com/user114098720) on [Vimeo](https://vimeo.com).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my internet wasn't working yesterday and I forgot what I'd written in the last chapter of "An All Consuming Creature." I didn't remember where I was at and decided to work on a ficlet in the meantime while I waited for things to be up and running again so I could read where we left off.
> 
> Anyway, Ciri's working through some emotional baggage. And I guess these ficlets have accidentally become a semi-connected plot. But they can be read individually so I guess it doesn't matter.
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> Now with the first verse of Ciri's song included. I'm too lazy to sort out the rest, so I leave you to extrapolate.


	3. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri tails Geralt through the street after he lies about needing to buy some thread. She's on a mission to find out what he's really shopping for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2463

Silently, Ciri ducked between shoppers, making her way down the wide street of the artisan district. There were plenty of people in this city, and they and their servants had many shops to visit and places to go for socializing. Workers also bustled here and there, fetching and carrying, delivering, buying, but Geralt was easy to spot, his white hair and broad stature made a beacon among the crowd. It helped that people avoided him as well.

Ciri hurried after him. In gatherings, it was easy enough to get up beside Geralt without him noticing, even with his heightened senses. She just had to keep a regular walking pace. True sneaking would catch his attention, alerting him to an ambush or a purse-snatcher. Running was right out. But she had to take measured steps to avoid sounding like herself and blend in with the crowd. He’d unintentionally taught her that when he once remarked off-handedly that he could recognize the sound of Jaskier’s footsteps. Jaskier had tried to sneak up behind him to dump snow over his head, which had backfired horribly when Geralt turned and pulled his leg out from under him, tripping him back into a deep bank of snow.

As she snuck after him, she noticed he’d stopped before one of the shops. He stared at a display in the window. She waited until he continued before she crept over to have a look. It was a hatter’s shop. She tilted her head, wondering why he’d bothered to stop. He didn’t wear hats. Then her eyes flicked up to a black hat on the most prominent stand. Tucked in a band on the side was a black ostrich feather, and three more feathers stuck out on the other side: long, thin, white feathers that accented the large plume.

“Jaskier would wear that,” she said to herself. He’d taken such a hat off the head of a patron a few days back, busking in the town square. He’d plopped it on his own head for three verses before returning it, all in good fun. He’d contemplated aloud whether he ought to buy himself a nice hat now that he had some money saved. She made a note to point it out to him the next time they happened by. He was currently occupied with procuring their lodging for the evening, and Geralt had gone to purchase some new thread for sutures. But Ciri had been in their packs just the other day looking for healing ointment. She’d cut her hand preparing dinner and, rummaging in the pack, she’d seen plenty of thread among their supplies. So when Geralt had made the excuse, she’d been curious and followed to find out the true nature of his errand.

Geralt stopped again as they came upon the widest part of the main road. Here, travelling vendors and merchants displayed their wares. A man boasted exotic oils and perfumes, sold in the courts of kings in foreign lands. It was a lot of obnoxious puffery, anyone knew, but that was how every merchant drew attention, and the larger the city, the more willing people were to believe in the novel merit of exotic goods.

The merchant uncorked a bottle and wafted it with his hand. Ciri could _see_ Geralt sniff as he passed, and he paused on the cobbles, his head slightly turned. The merchant spotted him and smiled. “Ah, would you—” but Geralt hastened away.

Ciri dashed up to the man and leaned over the edge of his booth. “May I see?” she asked. The man lowered the bottle and she took a whiff. “Oh!” She recognized it. Jaskier had scented her baths with the smell before.

“Orange blossom,” the man explained. “Does the young lady’s mother wear perfume?”

She smiled. “No,” she said kindly.

“Her father then?”

“He could be,” she answered with a shrug. She left the confused merchant and was back dogging Geralt’s heels.

A girl pedaling flowers was walking the opposite direction. Tucked in her arm, she carried a basket of pretty wildflowers, likely picked just outside the city. She called out to passersby, waving a daisy in the air. Her appearance was neat, but the hem of her dress was partly frayed. She more than likely lived closer to the edge of the city, one of the poorer residents of the slums. Ciri saw her and wished she carried a purse that she might purchase a flower.

Geralt had spotted her too. Ciri watched him approach, reaching into the pocket of his vest armour. The girl startled at the sight of the witcher approaching, but he held two copper coins out to her, maintaining his distance. She handed him a daisy and retrieved the pay with a shaking hand. She hurried away after. She was still very young.

That was one of the things Ciri had admired most about Geralt in their travels, and it had softened her heart to him. He was quietly kind.

Ciri watched Geralt twirl the flower between his fingers. He held it low against his side as he walked, now and then tapping his hand against his hip. Now and then he looked at it, tilting it upward. He seemed to be considering something, but he looked away, resuming his tapping and twirling. There was something about the way he refused to look at it again which struck Ciri as being shy, and she began to form an idea as to why, watching Geralt mouth words silently to himself, gesticulating ever so subtly with the daisy.

He stopped in front of a boutique. He held the flower up, staring at it. His lips were a flat line of contemplation. Slowly, he tilted the head of the flower forward, raising his eyebrows, mouth slightly open as if to speak. Then, looking embarrassed, he tossed the flower aside. He retreated into the shop, rubbing the back of his neck.

It finally clicked. Ciri scooped to pick the fallen flower up as she entered the shop. The bell tinkled behind her and she held the flower triumphantly as Geralt turned to look.

“You _do_ like Jaskier,” she declared confidently. “You’re—!”

Geralt clamped a hand over her mouth and peered over her shoulder. Seeing the coast was clear, for surely he was looking for her chaperone, he released her. His expression was not a happy one. “What are you implying?” he asked.

Ciri straightened up. “I’m not implying. I’m accusing.” She held the flower up between them. “You’re a coward. And you want to give Jaskier a present.”

“What makes you think that?” he asked. His eyes never left the flower. He was quite obviously caught, but he was not about to give in without evidence.

Ciri twirled the flower again, her expression a smug imitation of one Geralt knew so very well from another. “The hat, the perfume, this flower, and now a boutique,” she said.

“Thought it was a tailor’s, strong smells startle me, the girl needed the coin, and I came to buy thread,” he replied, not giving an inch.

“The hatter’s shop has a sign in the shape of a hat. You’re oblivious, not stupid.” She grinned and tucked the flower behind her ear. With a flick of a confident hand, she gestured to it. “But I suppose you might have bought this flower for me. Oh, _thank_ you, Geralt! I love it so very much! Tell me, is it pretty? Does it suit me?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “It’s nice,” he grumbled.

“I saw you practicing outside before you threw it away. It isn’t for me, is it?”

“It could be.”

“If it was you would say ‘it is,’ not ‘ it could be.’ I think I know you that well by now at least. You only mince words when you’re avoiding the truth. And the truth is that you like him.”

He scoffed. “I like him just fine. You don’t travel for twenty years with someone you don’t like,” he grumbled.

Ciri took the flower from her hair and tucked it in his armour. “Geralt, I’ve seen you hold his hand. We both know that’s a very different kind of liking.” She looked at him, smiling with certainty. “You know he likes you too, don’t you?”

Geralt looked away. He plucked the flower from his armour and fiddled with it until, ever-so slightly, he nodded.

“So what’s the matter?” Ciri asked. “Why are you shy about getting him something?”

He shrugged. “It would be … different. After that time. After holding his hand.”

“But that’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s not something I’ve done before,” he mumbled.

Ciri took pity on him. Of course he would be nervous. Actions spoke louder than words, and he was stingy with words at the best of times. Geralt was not one for declarations, and there was a long history there, she knew. The change would be frightening.

“The hat is too much,” she decided. The perfume too. The flower by now was slightly mangled from all the back and forth passing and waving, though it was the right sort of idea. She looked around thoughtfully. A boutique was as good a place as any to find a gift for Jaskier. A ribbon? But no, only she and Geralt wore them. A new shirt or doublet would be too big as well. Geralt needed something small to start with. Something simple and sweet.

She pinched his sleeve and towed him around the shop, looking at the various wares on display. There were plenty of small accessories for sale, hanging on little tree-like stands or displayed in boxes. A brooch would be nice, but it also felt like something too large. Ciri hurried them past the rings quickly, lest Geralt get the wrong idea. _Much_ too soon for that.

Eventually the woman at the front began to give them odd looks and Ciri let Geralt get on with his business. He went to talk to the woman about procuring a round of thread, hoping to carefully inspect a small selection, then make a graceful exit when it was opportune after pretending not to find what he needed. Ciri sighed as this went on and played with a dish of buttons left on the counter while she waited, pushing them around with her finger.

It was then that she uncovered one silver button which drew her attention. She picked it up to examine more closely. At once, she tugged at Geralt’s sleeve, holding the button up to him with importance. “This,” she said. “This is what you need.”

He looked at the button curiously, then smiled. He turned to the woman and pointed to a bobbin at random, making his selection. “And this as well,” he said, fishing out his purse. In a minute, they were on the road that lead back to the inn, the spoils of victory in their pockets.

They found Jaskier sitting in the pub, fiddling with something in his lute case. As they approached, Ciri heard him curse under his breath. “Damned thing can never stay shut,” he griped. Drawing closer, they saw it was his notebook giving him trouble. More specifically, it was the clasp. The _button_ clasp, now missing its button.

Ciri looked at Geralt knowingly. Some days ago, Jaskier had sat down to write in his notebook, only to find the button keeping it closed had broken off and gotten lost. He kept loose pages in his notebook, and without the tension of the clasp, they had a tendency to fall out. Jaskier had tried to remedy the situation by wrapping a length of string around his notebook, but that had grown tiresome quickly. Instead, he’d cut a small twig and tied it onto the loose threads that once held the button in place, but the twig was too short and kept slipping out of the leather buttonhole that held the covers together.

“Still having trouble?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier looked up and gave her a defeated smile. “When am I not?” he answered wryly. “Oh the petty problems that plague me! My life is but strife and these trifles are troubling!” He plucked the twig from its place, the useless knots unravelled already, and tossed it over his shoulder dramatically. “Say farewell to your favorite verses. I’ve given up, and they’ll all come tumbling out to die horrible deaths, wrinkled and crumpled at the bottom of my bag. I haven’t got a button spare. I’d rip one from my doublet if I thought it might fit, but each of them is too small for the clasp. It’s be a wasted effort.”

Ciri nudged Geralt with her foot and stepped back, giving him the spotlight.

“May I see it?” Geralt asked, reaching a hand out for Jaskier’s notebook.

Jaskier dropped it in his palm. “Go nuts,” he moped.

Geralt sat beside Jaskier and reached for one of their bags. As he rummaged, Jaskier turned to Ciri to explain that their room was being made ready, and he was forced to sit and wait, wallowing in his misfortune, without even a comfortable bed upon which to nap, so on and so forth. While the two of them conversed, Geralt produced a needle and his knife. He cut away the old thread and, with the new thread he’d purchased, began to stitch the button on Jaskier’s notebook. By the time Jaskier paused to see what Geralt was doing, Geralt was pushing the button through the clasp, his work done.

“Here,” he said, passing the notebook back to Jaskier. “Will this work?”

Jaskier looked at the cover. At once, a great smile broke out across his face. He opened and closed the clasp with ease, tugging to test it. The button held firm, not slipping from the clasp nor breaking off. “It’s perfect!” he cheered. “Would you just look at that. It’s the right size and all!”

“Look carefully at the pattern,” Ciri said, pointing over his shoulder.

Jaskier did. “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s a buttercup.”

“Geralt found it when we went to get the thread, didn’t you, Geralt?”

Geralt’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. He hadn’t been the one to find the button. He hadn’t even known Jaskier had need of one. Why would she—

“Oh, Geralt, thank you!” Jaskier cried. He flung his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and gave him a tight squeeze. “Aren’t you a perfect knight in shining armour, come to the rescue!”

Geralt’s ears tinted a light pink as Jaskier nuzzled against his cheek. Oh. That was why.

Ciri watched with self-satisfied amusement, grinning at Geralt from behind Jaskier’s back. She winked at him. It didn’t matter that she’d found the button. She was happy to help.

Geralt smiled and winked back. It would be their little secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ciri loves to butt in. Get it? Butt in? Button? I'm a riot.


	4. Long Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's hair has grown out again and Geralt very much wants to touch it, but he struggles with asking for things. Ciri decides to help him.

"You're hair's gotten long again," Geralt said. He’d been staring more and more recently, as he tended to do when Jaskier neglected to keep his hair trimmed on the road. The very soon, the comments would return as before. Once a day, for some reason or other, Geralt would have something to say in passing about his hair being mussed or tangled; how Jaskier would soon have to start tying his hair back to see any sign of the road ahead, lest it become a hazard and make him trip. It was annoying, and hypocritical on Geralt’s part. As though Jaskier couldn’t manage the hair on his own head.

Jaskier grunted and pulled the brush through his hair again, a bit rougher than before. “I’m growing it out,” he replied, a touch huffily. “And I don’t want to hear any talk about my hair. I keep it in fine order: softer than silk, natural shine. I’ll wear it up or down as I please and it will _not_ trip me up, thank you.”

“I think it suits him,” Ciri added, eyes narrowed as it to dare Geralt to contradict her.

Geralt looked between the two of them, brow furrowed. He’d not expected such hostile responses. “All I said was that it’s gotten long.”

“And it’s going to stay long until I decide otherwise,” Jaskier concluded. “So I don’t want to hear any talk of it.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. Relax.”

“Good. Best to keep it that way.”

Geralt frowned over his bedroll, pausing midway through packing. Had he done something the night before, he wondered? It seemed both Ciri and Jaskier woke up on the defensive. He’d only just said his first words of the day and they were snapping at him. Perhaps it was one of those days where he’d best keep his mouth shut.

“Can I finish brushing your hair, Jaskier?” Ciri asked, stepping up behind him. “I want to try styling it today. I think it must be long enough by now.”

Jaskier sat up straighter and passed the brush back. “Remember to brush from the ends up. Not that I have any tangles you need concern yourself with, of course,” he added a touch testily. However, the tone was certainly not directed at her.

Geralt hitched his bedroll to Roach’s saddle with a bit more force than necessary. He subtly felt at his own hair, wondering if there were knots in it. He knew Jaskier was hinting at something, and hinting it strongly in his direction, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand what or why. However, he understood one thing. It had to do with hair.

When the time came to clear camp, Geralt walked a few paces behind Jaskier. He admired Ciri’s short braids. She was quite good at styling. He approached Jaskier’s side quietly, looking straight at the road ahead.

“Your hair looks nice,” he said, attempting to smooth things over.

Jaskier scrutinized him from the corner of his eye. “Ciri’s a talent,” he grunted in reply. Usually, he would have said two or three more grand, flowery sentences, bragging of her great skill, but now he was unusually taciturn. And he _loved_ boasting of Ciri’s smallest accomplishments when she was in hearing range.

The day was hot and Geralt began to sweat in his armour. Jaskier had told him many times before that it was silly to wear it all the time in the summer, that he ought to leave it off on travel days. The woods were empty, the likelihood of coming upon monsters or bandits low, but it was habit. Even if he _did_ forgo his gear, the sun was not the cause of his perspiration.

Geralt worried the inside of his cheek, thinking over the previous evening’s activities. He could not call to mind anything offensive happening. Jaskier had gone to sleep with a smile on his face, Ciri curled up under his arm with much the same expression. They’d had a good day: there’d been fine weather, and Ciri had found a wild raspberry bush growing near the road. She and Jaskier had gorged themselves on the berries at lunchtime and packed a bag full to enjoy. Later, they’d seen a family of hedgehogs poking out from under a farmer’s woodshed and spent ten minutes cooing over the little ones from a distance. At dinner, they’d had an hour of singing and story-telling. So what had he done wrong?

Geralt was still puzzling over the question when they stopped for lunch. They unpacked Roach’s saddle and let her graze. Jaskier and Ciri shared out the berries and got the fire started; Jaskier intended to teach her how to make tea from raspberry leaves. Meanwhile, Geralt went fishing in the river. When he returned, Jaskier’s hair was down again. He was laying with his head in Ciri’s lap, having a nap while she played with his hair.

The sight stopped Geralt dead in his tracks. It was an idea he’d never entertained before. Jaskier looked so comfortable there, and Geralt wished he might run his hands through that fine brown hair so casually as well. He pursed his lips in a flat line, trudging to the opposite side of the fire to start on their lunch. Now and then, he cast jealous glances at the two.

Ciri smiled, catching his eye. She held his gaze a moment and something passed between the two of them. A sense of understanding washed over her features. Slowly, deliberately, he brushed Jaskier’s hair and added a new braid to it. She then nodded at Geralt, smug as a cat.

Somehow, Geralt felt as if she’d just caught him like a fish under her paw. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she replied, her tone just a bit too cheerful.

Jaskier stirred, waking slightly. “D’you say something?” he mumbled tiredly.

“Nothing. Except … oh, just thinking out loud. You have such _soft_ hair.” Ciri curled a bit of it around her finger. “It’ll be fun once it gets longer and I can do all sorts of styles with it. Maybe I can teach Geralt how I like my hair done. You’d let him borrow your hair for a lesson, _wouldn’t_ you, Jaskier?”

He mumbled something in reply, already half-asleep once more.

Ciri grinned at Geralt. “I think that’s a yes,” she said.

Geralt glared at her, a flush crawling up his neck. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

“Because you’re entertaining. It’s funny, once one understands what’s going on in your head. You’re the closest thing we have out here to a court jester.”

“I’m eating your second fish for that,” he threatened. “And just what do you think is going on in my head?”

“Many things. Right now, I’m sure you’re imagining switching places with me,” she said. “I’d let you if you asked. Jaskier would let you. In fact, I think he’d appreciate it.”

Geralt poked several sticks in the ground beside the fire, the fish speared through them. Really, nothing escaped those big green eyes of hers. “I’m not good at asking things,” he mumbled.

“I know. You’re bad at a lot of things,” she joked. At his hurt expression, she quickly added, “But I only mean little things, like braiding hair. But you’re getting better! Jaskier says my plaits have gotten more even lately after you’ve done them. And I’m not very good at foraging yet. We all have our weaknesses. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Geralt smiled timidly. “At least I’m better at back-tracking than you,” he said. His teasing was rare, their interactions still fumbling.

Ciri lit up with a bright smile. “Do you want to try some of the tea we made? Jaskier taught me which leaves to pick. He’s teaching me the foraging he learned from you. Maybe once that’s improved, I’ll try to work on my back-tracking.”

“That depends.” Geralt nodded towards Jaskier’s prone form, at the little wood bowl of tea beside his hand. “Are you sure he’s only sleeping? Might be poison after all.”

Ciri looked at him ruefully, then tossed the remains of her tea at him from across the fire. He laughed, leaning out of range. “You’re lucky I have Jaskier in my lap to stop me from getting up. If not for him, I’d have got you.”

“Instead of back-tracking insults, perhaps we ought to practice your coordination.”

“Any _you_ ought to practice _talking,”_ she countered. “You still haven’t talked to him yet. Watching you two glide around each other is getting tedious. You’re like a pair of—”

“Courting swans?” Geralt suggested, recalling the phrase Mousesack used once long ago.

She nodded. “Only less aggressive. You know he likes you. So why do you hesitate?”

It was a question Geralt often asked himself. He shrugged. “As I told you before; it’s something I haven’t done before. I’m … taking my time.”

“Can you take it a little faster? And more directly. Jaskier thinks you think his hair looks bad long. He told me about it before: that you’d say his hair was messy in back, or that it needed tying up. I’m starting to think those were poor attempts at excuses; you wanted to brush his hair for him because ‘he missed a spot’ or you wanted to tie it up for him.” She glanced at him with an exaggerated sigh. “Honestly, taking care of the two of you is such a lot of work. Sometimes I wonder whether _I’m_ not _your_ guardian.”

Geralt chuckled. “If I ask about his hair directly, will you cease your jeering? That sarcastic expression of yours is unbecoming of a princess. They’re a polite breed.”

“Shows what you know of princesses,” she said. “But I might let you off awhile. If you do it tonight. I think I’ll have you pet his hair until he falls asleep. I always sleep well when he does it for me, and he’s been tired lately.” As an afterthought, she added, “And let him ride Roach tomorrow. Then we’ll have a deal.”

Geralt squinted at her. “I’m starting to think you have a solid favorite.”

She grinned once more, tilting her head back. “Only just starting?” she teased. “I thought witchers were quick.”

“We are, but your tongue is quicker.” He plucked a skewer from the ground and approached her with it. “Here, put it to better use and eat while it’s hot,” he said, handing her the first fish. “All the better if you burn your tongue. I think a few minutes of silence would do you good.” He smiled and ruffled her hair, letting it fall in a mess over her eyes. With another light chuckle, he returned to the fire to attend to the other fish.

By the time they’d gotten halfway through their lunch, Jaskier woke. He rose with a powerful stretch and sighed before lying back down again. Wiping his eyes, he searched the sky, surprised to see the sun was still in the same position. “How long was I asleep?” he asked. “My body is lying to me; I’m sure I slept for at least three hours.”

“It’s been less than one,” Ciri said. “But if you don’t mind, my legs are starting to get sore.”

“Apologies.” Jaskier sat upright and scooped up his cold tea. “Ah, is that for me?” he asked, catching sight of the two fish remaining by the fire’s edge. He sat himself down in front of them and tucked in.

Geralt looked at the nest of hair sticking up in back of Jaskier’s head where he’d been laying. He looked back at Ciri, finishing the last of her skewer. “Ciri?” he said, catching her attention.

She straightened up expectantly.

He thumbed toward Jaskier’s pack. “Fetch us the brush.”

At once, she was on her feet, the remains of her bony fish in the fire.

Jaskier groaned. “I _just_ woke up,” he complained. “And I’m hungry. If my hair offends you so, avert your eyes. I’ll deal with it after I’ve eaten.”

“It’s no offense, but I know how you are about your appearance.”

“You make me sound vain.”

“You _are_ vain.”

Jaskier huffed. “Well, I have a right to be. I have lovely hair, and right now, my hands are covered in fish oil. I’m not about to risk getting any of it near my majestic mane.”

Geralt held out his hand as Ciri approach with the brush. She dropped it into his hand and he stood, sitting down behind Jaskier. “That’s why I’m going to do it for you,” he said.

“You what?”

“I’m going to brush your hair for you,” Geralt repeated.

Jaskier turned his head, only for Geralt to turn it forward again. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I’ve wanted to. For a while. Thought you’d catch on, but you’re astonishingly slow.”

Ciri snorted from somewhere behind them. Geralt cleared his throat to cover the sound.

Jaskier sat up straighter, a happy flush painting his cheeks. “So then. You _do_ like my hair.”

“It’s nice,” Geralt grunted begrudgingly. “Not that I have _strong_ opinions on the subject.” He brushed Jaskier’s hair in short strokes, started from the bottom and slowly working up to the root. It really was as soft as it looked. He rubbed a section between his fingers appreciatively. Jaskier looked best with short hair, he thought, but long hair suited him fine.

“But you do admit to _having_ an opinion.”

“Is it wise to antagonize the person brushing your hair?” Geralt asked, giving him one warning tug with the brush before more carefully removing a tangle.

Jaskier turned his head. “Cover your ears, Ciri. I’m inclined to say something wholly inappropriate for children’s ears.”

Geralt tugged his hair again. “Don’t be rude,” he scolded.

“Oh, Geralt. Harder please!”

Geralt set down the brush again and trudged back to the other side of the fire, Jaskier and Ciri’s laughter drowning out his grumbling.

Ciri wiped at her eyes, her hand gripping Jaskier’s shoulder for balance. “You shouldn’t tease him, Jaskier,” she said, slowly catching her breath. “Do you know how hard it was to get him to pick up that brush in the first place? It’ll take weeks before he tries again after that.”

“I’m sure he’ll survive. After all, once you’ve felt these luxurious locks, you can’t stay away for long! It’s a trap of my own invention.”

He stood and crossed to Geralt. “Thank you for lunch,” he said. “And I’m sorry for teasing. I’ll be on my very best behaviour for the rest of the afternoon.” He bent low and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “All’s well then?”

Geralt nodded, stunned. The flush began to crawl up his neck once more as Jaskier skipped back to his place. When lunch was over, it was decided that they’d had a long week of travelling, and the location was a fine one to stop and rest. They’d take the rest of the day off, lounge around, and return to the road the next morning. Jaskier was ecstatic. He unpacked his bedroll immediately after washing up and threw himself down upon it, stretching out on his belly in the glorious sunshine. He was ready to sleep eighteen hours straight.

But Ciri was not ready to rest. She still had one last piece of work to do before the day was out. “Jaskier? Can I borrow your hair?” Ciri asked. “I want to teach Geralt to braid a fishtail.”

Jaskier waved a hand, not bothering to open his eyes. “As you like!” he said.

So it was that Geralt sat at Ciri’s side, Jaskier between them, learning to style hair for the next hour. Jaskier sighed beneath his hands, basking in the attention like a pampered pooch. Ciri likewise was delighted when she deemed Geralt sufficient and he volunteered to put his practice to the test on her hair. When he finished, she totted off to show Roach his handiwork.

Geralt stretched out beside Jaskier. He closed his eyes with a comfortable sigh. “Long day,” he said.

“Two hours past noon,” Jaskier chuckled.

“And it was noon for two hours before that. Long day.”

“Hm. Be shorter if you slept. Makes time fly by. And I have a delightfully cozy ray of sun that makes it so very tempting.”

“Care to share it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier patted the empty space on his bed roll. “By all means.”

Geralt scooted closer. He cracked one eye open. “It really does look nice,” he said.

“Feels nicer.”

Taking the hint, Geralt raised a hand and resumed stroking. “Are you going to be so demanding from now on?”

“Yes.”

Geralt hummed. He supposed he could live with that.

He was still stroking Jaskier’s hair when Ciri came back, Geralt’s roll in her arms. She spread it out beside Jaskier’s, tucking the edge under Geralt as he rolled over for her. The bed neatly made, she flopped herself down with her head on Geralt’s middle. His hand came up to stroke her hair as well. The three of the lay together in the warm sunshine, Ciri passing the occasional raspberry between them, and it really was the best of days. They were finally getting somewhere, she thought. And thank goodness for that; she’d been waiting long enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking forward to the next installment when Yennefer finally enters the scene. Cue Jaskier and Ciri ditching Geralt for a little while to get in some bonding time! He'll be busy on a hunt lol.


End file.
